


Little Fires

by Represent



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Dark, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5626567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Represent/pseuds/Represent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My family's supposed to be geniuses, yet they've never figured it out. Now I know why. Because they already know I'm Phantom. They must know. The better questions are: Have they known this whole time? What's in that vial? What happened to Skulker? And what's in the locked drawer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I am the fly

**IT'S HALFWAY THROUGH SECOND PERIOD** when a rocket careens through the window— sending shattered glass across the floor— and explodes against the far wall. Debris showers the air. My eardrums ring. The students around me scream and duck under their desks while others race for the door.

Half a second too late, a shiver runs through me, my breath condensing in front of my mouth. I turn and look back at Tucker. He's staring with owl eyes at the window... or, what _used_ to be the window.

Skulker floats down into view, aiming a deadly-looking gun at me. He tilts his head and says, "Whelp."

Glancing around the room, I see that most of the students besides Tucker have already bailed. Paulina's still in the back of the class though. She looks unconscious. Probably fainted.

I turn back to face Skulker and reach into my core, transforming with a _snap-fizzle_.

"Tuck—" I start, but he's already nodding and leaving to find Sam.

"You could have just given me a call if you wanted to talk. I have a cellphone. You _do_ know what a cellphone is, right Inspector Gadget?"

"You talk too much, child," Skulker says without imagination. "Less talking, more killing."

His jetpack roars as he rockets forward and grabs me by the collar of my suit, throwing me towards the ceiling. I concentrate and phase through it. With a tumbling whirl, I find myself above the roof on the eastern wing.

 _Fine._ I reach back for my thermos, spinning to try and catch him by surprise when he follows me. I wait. Seconds tick by. My shoulders hunch. I start to get worried. A whirring noise erupts from behind my back and I turn to see Skulker's iron foot aimed at my head. I backflip to get away, flying as far from the school possible.

"That's right— run ghost child!" Skulker crows. He sounds manic with the thrill of the chase. I realize that I'm only giving him what he wants most: Prey.

Near an alleyway, I spin to go on the attack.

"Domo arigato, Mr Ro—" I inhale until my lungs feel like balloons about to burst and brace myself. As I scream, a memory stirs in the back of my mind, yawning and stretching, until it overcomes me and the alleyway dissolves.

 _—Complete darkness. Screaming. Pain. Acid burns through my veins. I punch into the void, but my arms won't move. A circular bright light. I shy away from it. I kick. I buck. I knash my teeth together in frustration. The screaming cracks. I discover_ I am _the one screaming. The pain intensifies and I pick up where I left off. It feels like the right thing to do. Scream until my throat tears; scream until someone helps me; scream to prove I'm alive—_

Then, just as abruptly as I had been thrown into that place, I'm ripped free. I blink and see Skulker half broken and sparking from my latest volley. He's saying something to me, but I'm too preoccupied from that memory. I look down at the dropped thermos. It's at least twenty feet below, rolled halfway underneath a trashbin.

"...did _not_ just call me Mr. Roboto, runt." I look back in time to see Skulker raise a rocket from his right shoulder and aim; fire.

My body wants to dodge right, but my brain is reeling. The two tug at opposite ends of a rope, leaving me stuck in between. His rocket hits me in the chest. My eyes go wide. His eyes go wide. My bones snap and I'm cartwheeling backwards, hurtling towards something at a very unhealthy rate.

I have a split second to marvel at the brick masonry, before my head collides with a not-so-heartwarming crunch.

**.**

**.**

The first thought I think, once my brain reboots and starts thinking thoughts again, is: _Intangibility, dumbass. Use it._

"...Hey kid, are you dead?"

A gigantic question mark spins idly in my mind. I can taste my own blood in my mouth. The taste is iron-ey and plastic-ey and completely unwelcome. I swirl my swollen tongue across my teeth. All of them are intact, from what I can tell. I count that as a tiny win.

"What do I do? Do I hide the body? They'll know immediately." Skulker's muttering to himself, terror trembling in his voice as he pokes me in the back over and over like a piece of meat. I flinch. No good. I'm in bad shape. Definitely concussed. My ribs are shifting, too pliable, probably cracked if not broken. "You were supposed to go right. You _always_ go right. Why didn't you _go right?_ You can't die, got that?"

"Why can't I die?" I ask. "Not that I'm complaining," I tack on as an afterthought, not wanting Skulker to get any ideas. Dying is high on my list— if not the highest— of things to avoid. So far I haven't done a great job of it.

Skulker freezes. "You're alive?"

I crack an eye open and reward Skulker with what I hope is a withering one-eyed glare. The inner rebel in me stands up to shake a fist, but my defiance is quickly smothered by overwhelming pain. I probably look more pathetic than anything. I shove my cheek into the cement to check that the ground is stationary; right now it's pitching somersaults.

"Oh good, _good."_

"Why can't I die?" I repeat. "And why aren't you making me into a rug or skinning me or— or whatever?"

"Did I say that? I didn't say that." Skulker hums. "Anyway, I'm rethinking the rug. Might throw off the... what do you humans call it? _Feng-shui?_ Actually I was just— Hey, can I go inside your soup-warming device? Just for a little while. Maybe five years."

I stare. "What?" I'm not sure I heard him correctly.

"Isn't that what you wanted to do in the first place? Enslave me in that little contraption of yours?"

I eye the ghost with mounting suspicion as he retrieves the Fenton Thermos from where it rolled across the alley. He places it on the ground next to my face. I reach out, pick it up, and point it at the ghost with shaking hands.

"Do it," Skulker urges.

"Is this some kinda trap?"

"Hurry up. Before I change my mind."

I frown, then I shrug and press the button, half expecting some kind of explosion or a net to pop out of thin air. Instead, Skulker's tugged into the device. I swear that a split second before his head disappears he gives me a relieved _smile._

Huh. That was… weird.

"Danny?!" Sam skids around the corner, catches sight of me in the alley, and nearly tumbles trying to over-correct her momentum. Tucker is right behind her. "Are you okay? You're bleeding." She's by my side in four long strides. Already she's undoing her backpack, no doubt searching for medical supplies.

"I'm just great," I tell her. Catching my sarcasm, she pokes at the back of my head. I wince when she pokes the tender spot. Gotta say— I'm getting a little tired of being prodded. Her fingers retract, stained red-green with my blood.

"You look really bad," Tucker says nervously.

I give him a bloody grin. It's supposed to be reassuring, but Tucker pales.

"Don't worry. I promised not to die." I remember Skulker's minor panic attack from earlier.

My head feels exactly like you'd expect after slamming it into a brick wall: Like there are tiny people yanking on strings in my brain, banging pipes, and setting off small explosions.

"Did you get him?" Tucker asks.

I give the thermos a cocky little shake with more pep than I feel. "Yeah..."

The victory is a hollow one. I feel like I've opened yet another portal— this time one containing a million questions. Why didn't Skulker finish me off? Who are 'they'? Why'd he _ask_ to go in the thermos? I groan. I'll think about this later. Besides, it isn't like Skulker can go anywhere. I can always flush him out and interrogate him tomorrow.

"Let me hold that for now," Sam reaches over to take the thermos out of my hand, but I pull it close.

"I got it. Skulker and I have unfinished business."

Sam gives me The Look™. "You better not be finishing any of that business until you're healed."

"Its just a broken rib." I attempt a laugh, but it hurts too much. Instead it turns into a cough, which turns into blood spattering down my tee, which turns into Sam nearly crying.

"Shut up," she tells me.

So I shut up.

**.**

**.**

There's no point in going back to school. Just as there's no point in going to the hospital. One sample of blood, one heart monitor, or one thermometer later and I'd be the next medical oddity. That only leaves my room, my bed, my galaxy-patterned quilt, and all the time it'll take for my powers to superglue my bones back together.

Sam and Tucker manage to half-walk-half-tote me back to my house. I'm practically rolled up the steps and into my room.

I put the thermos containing Skulker onto my desk, then I make for the bed. My pillows are humming invitingly with godly beams of light. As I take a step to bury my aching head into their embrace, Sam tugs on my arm.

"Wait— your shirt. We need to clean you up first."

What about my shirt? I blink and look down, seeing the blood-splatters down my chest. Ah.

"Later." I swallow thickly as a wave of nausea hits me. They've been coming in droves every ten minutes. Tucker senses something's up and kicks my trashbin over to me. "I gotta… lay down," I mumble.

"I dunno about this," Tucker says warily as I stick my head deep inside the bin. "You were coughing up blood. Maybe we should tell your parents? We could say you got mugged or something."

"No." I close my eyes as the vertigo worsens. My mouth waters. My stomach rises to my throat. With a grimace I spit into the trash, waiting for the feeling to pass. After a minute it fades away, leaving behind an uncomfortable tightening in my abdomen. "Go back to class. I'll be fine. I'll just tell them I have a headache." It wouldn't be a lie.

"Even your parents are going to notice something's up when they see all that blood on you," Sam says quietly.

I sigh. She's right. I put the bin down and carefully tug at the hem of my shirt to pull it off. Tucker has to help me get it up over my head.

Sam and Tucker gasp in unison.

I blink and look across my room at the mirror, seeing mottled angry bruises across my ribcage. The outline of my ribs is visible through my swollen skin. It looks like one of those post-modern abstract paintings my mom always tilts her head at and ho-hums. Like some artist sniffed too much turpentine and went a little crazy with the blue, green and purple ink.

Sam turns from me, shaking her head, to root around through my drawers for a clean shirt.

"This one alright?" she asks.

Without looking I nod, my lips tight. I don't trust myself to speak at this point without decorating the bedroom floor with my breakfast. The pair of them seem to sense that what I desire most (besides a new body) is darkness and silence. They fuss over me for a bit, before they leave me cocooned in bed to count my breaths, focus on healing, and ponder over how bizarre this morning had become.


	2. underneath their magnifying glass

**WHEN I WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD,** my mom would take me to the Ops Center and teach me about the universe. Being a speck in an infinite cosmos is humbling. It drew me back night after night— propping my window open, even in the cold, so I could watch those balls of light spin eons away. For Jazz's fifteenth birthday, our family went to Florida and, standing on the white sand beaches of Miami facing the ocean for the first time in my life, I had felt just as insignificant. The Atlantic Ocean had smelled like salt, sunscreen, and happy people.

"I like the ocean," I'd told my father. "It's so vast; I'm so small."

He laughed and patted me on the head, uncertain how to handle a philosophical thirteen-year-old. I think he'd rather treat me as seven, always.

"Why don't you go swim around?"

"I don't want to drown."

We spent the rest of our vacation dipping our toes in the water, never daring to wade past the ankles, awkward land huggers surrounded by beautiful tanned Cuban-American sea creatures.

In the airport on the way back, I'd tried to goad my mother into buying me a CD of the noise of waves breaking. She snorted and told me to put it back, then her phone rang. As she moved away to answer it, I continued to poke through racks of sunglasses and alligator magnets ('Bite Me!' Florida Everglades). Peering over the tacky 'I Heart Miami' shirts I watched her. She'd looked like she'd just won the lottery.

"Who was that?" I asked after she hung up and rejoined me. "Mom?"

She looked at me almost like she was surveying me. Her hand rested atop my head, feeling the strands of my hair. "Where's that CD, honey? I'll get it as your souvenir."

She never did tell me who called her. I never pressed, getting what I wanted.

Right now that CD is playing on repeat, bathing my room in the soft tug and pull of waves crashing and receding, over and over, without end. The noise is vicodin. It reminds me of that vacation; of being content.

**.**

**.**

It's maybe three hours later that my bedroom door cracks open. I know, because I haven't slept. My head hurts too much. My eyes drift upwards from where they've been staring at the thermos on my desk, to the willowy shadow of a person near my door.

For a moment I think it's Jazz, but the soft light that's bending through my curtains catches a pair of red goggles. It's the glint that gives her away. I close my eyes again, feigning sleep.

"Danny?" she whispers.

Her presence hovers at the foot of my bed. She stays just a minute past being comforting. I open my eyes to let her know I'm awake, finding her looming above me, googles obscuring her eyes. I swallow, creeped out by her unnatural stillness.

"Hey," she smiles, lifting her goggles up off of her face as she sits down near my head. I whine like: _I'm sick, comfort me._

She brushes back my bangs, checking for a fever, finding none.

"Sam called," she says softly. "Told me you weren't feeling well."

"Migraine," I say, my voice hoarse.

Her cool hand moves off of my forehead and across my cheek as she stares down into my eyes. It feels like she knows I'm lying; but then she's smiling again and offering me a glass of water and two pills.

"Ibuprofen," she explains. "Have you taken any?"

For the second time today I feel like a dumbass.

"No," I admit. I grab them from her hands and awkwardly take them with the water sideways. I'm too afraid to sit up and risk her noticing my ribs. My body feels stiff, like rigor mortis has set in prematurely. I hand the water back and she sets it on my bedside table.

"Feeling up to dinner?"

I close my eyes.

"Ok. Let me know if you want to eat later. I'll be downstairs."

I don't hear her go. She leaves as stealthily as she came in. I finally fall asleep.

.

.

My clock tells me it's 11:23am Saturday morning. I've slept almost twenty-four hours. My limbs feel like awkward inconvenient things as I roll myself out of bed and make for the shower. The water turns pink with leftover blood as I wash around the new scabs and clear the crust off where sleep has caked my eyelashes together. A quick brush of teeth, some deodorant, a clean shirt, and I'm a new man.

I'm gingerly pulling on socks, my entire body still sore, when Jazz pokes her head through my door. "You're up?"

"Yup." I reach for my phone. Sam and Tucker have left me over ten texts.

"Well, Mom and Dad are out running errands," Jazz continues. "There's leftover spaghetti in the fridge... You feeling better?"

"Much better," I say. Almost healed. I wince as I hop off of my bed too quickly. Emphasis on 'almost.' My hand presses to my chest. Jazz's eyes narrow as she takes in the movement.

"I thought you told Mom you had a _migraine,_ " she accuses. I curse her internally for being the only observant Fenton in our whole family.

"I did."

"Then why—"

"Hey Jazz?" I interrupt. "Don't worry about it."

"But—"

"I'm fine. Really. Don't _worry_ about it." Frustration bleeds into my tone.

She pouts. Her eyes glimmer a little. She looks like she can't decide if she should be offended or concerned. She settles for offended. " _Fine._ " She disappears from my door.

A guilty frown tugs at my lips. I wish she'd stop being so nosy. It'd be easier to hide Phantom from her and it'd hurt a lot less feelings.

When I hear her door close and music start playing again I boot up my computer to videocall Sam and Tucker.

"Hey, man. You alright?" Tucker says as he connects. I can see the comic book posters hanging behind his head and action figures lining the back wall.

"Pretty much healed. Just a little sore."

Tucker lets out a low whistle of amazement. "You had me worried there," he admits. "Those powers are pretty handy."

"Oh look. Danny's not _completely_ dead," Sam greets as her face appears in the bottom-left-hand corner of my screen. She's barely visible in the dark lighting of her bedroom. No doubt her windows are covered to block out all sunlight.

"Sorry to disappoint."

"We only texted you a million times."

"I woke up fifteen minutes ago." I watch a little bit of anger whoosh out of her at that.

"Oh," she says. "You okay?"

"Functioning at seventy to eighty percent."

"So, you're back to normal then."

"Ha." I pout.

She laughs. There's this particular way that Sam laughs where she's almost surprised at finding herself cheerful; as if it was the last thing she ever expected to be doing. Like she realizes her mistake halfway through and tries to cut it out before anyone sees her.

"C'mon, I'd say he's at _least_ a solid eight-five percent." Tucker joins in, not one to miss an opportunity to joke at my expense.

"Eighty-five ain't bad. I'll take it. Does that score correlate to looks?"

Sam's suddenly extremely interested in something out her window. Tucker's laughing, but I can't tell if he's laughing at me or at Sam. If I had to guess I'd say both.

"So, I'm guessing you're still not up to hanging out?" Tucker asks.

"Later. I should probably eat something first."

"Eating is important," he agrees.

"You put Skulker back in the Ghost Zone, right?" Sam asks.

It takes all my self-control not to look at the thermos guiltily. For some reason, and I'm not sure why, I find myself lying to her. "Of course I did."

Sam doesn't look convinced. "I gotta go. My parents are trying to get me to go to the mall with them, she grumbles. She points a black-painted fingernail at her webcam. "Put that ghost back where it belongs, or so help me!" With that parting remark her face disappears from my screen as she signs out.

"I should probably go too," Tucker tells me. "My parents are out, but they'll be back any minute. They think I'm doing homework. See you later?"

"Yup."

Tucker signs out.

.

.

On my placemat at the kitchen table are two pink vitamins on a napkin along with a Post-It and the directions: _Danny— Hope you're feeling better. There's leftovers in the fridge you can heat up. Drink water and take your vitamins!_

I avoid the vitamins and instead root around for some leftover spaghetti. As I swirl the noodles around on my fork I pick at the pills, sniffing them. They smell awful. My mom's been forcing me to eat them for over a year now. They taste like what I imagine paint thinner must taste like. Not that I've ever tasted paint thinner but… I sweep them into the garbage. What my mother doesn't know won't hurt her. It's a motto I've been living by these past six months, ever since the Portal accident.

I put the dirty dishes in the sink and grab the thermos, heading for the basement to try and sort out what happened yesterday before my parents come back.

Despite the fact that I'm not in my top fighting condition, Skulker can't do much in a basement full of anti-ghost equipment. Just to be smart I arm myself before I flush the thermos out.

Nothing happens.

I frown, booting up the thermos again, and hit the button. It whines and powers down. Broken? I've never had a thermos break on me before. I spin it around in my hands and peer down at the capacity indicator. The light gauge is on empty.

It must be wrong. I _know_ Skulker is in there. At least, _yesterday_ he was in there. And it's been sitting on my desk the entire time.

Had he somehow escaped? Impossible.

My mind jumps to the only logical conclusion: someone, other than me, let Skulker out. The only people I'd seen in my room were Sam, Tucker, and my mom. Although, I was asleep for almost a full day. Anyone could have snuck in while I was out of it, but only Sam and Tucker had known that Skulker was in there. If they had been the ones to get rid of Skulker, why would they pretend otherwise this morning?

My head reminds me that it was recently smashed into a brick wall and it doesn't want to be thinking this hard. I swallow and close my eyes against the pounding, setting the empty thermos down on the table with a heavy thud. Of course. No answers. Just more questions. I had put Skulker on my desk, right? Patches of yesterday are fuzzy. I'm having trouble remembering how I got home. Maybe _I_ had been the one to flush Skulker out? No… that didn't seem right.

The green swirl of the portal catches my eye.

_—Concentric rings of blinding light, indecipherable pain, immobility, the tendons of a jaw strained past it's range of motion, tight, snapping in order to scream, screams, screaming—_

I lean my weight into the workbench as the memory recedes. I thought I was over flashbacks of the accident, but obviously not. When I open my eyes again to stare down at the tabletop a fly lands near my right hand and crawls across different vials and wires. My gaze trails off the bug to the drawer underneath, which is slightly ajar. A glimmer of a label catches my eye and I frown, pulling open the drawer fully to yank out a prescription bottle. There's a Post-It on it— not unlike the one upstairs— that says, in my mother's precise handwriting: _Danny._

My body goes cold as I try to read the label but it's unreadable to anyone other than a doctor or something. There's too many 'z's and 'mine's' in the ingredients. I squash the urge to pocket it and instead snap a quick picture of the label with my phone before putting it back.

I rifle quickly through the rest of the drawer's contents, finding nothing but my parent's scribbled notes, moldy cookies, and more flies that have been attracted to the sweet scent of chocolate.

A nagging thread of doubt starts to stem in the back of my mind.

It says: _Something's up._ It says: _Look out, things are about to change._ It says: _Someone didn't want you to talk to Skulker._ It's paranoid and it's restless and it causes me to start opening all the drawers in the basement. As I shift through decades worth of research there's nothing of real value or importance to me, until I hit a drawer that's locked. I frown and jiggle it a few times, but it's solid metal and unbending. A sudden cramp in my hand makes me let go of the handle. My frown deepens. Curiosity overcomes me. What could be in this drawer that my parents keep it under lock and key? I bend to peer at the lock. It might be a trick of the light, but it looks like it's faintly glowing. Just as I prepare to phase my hand through it I hear the front door slam shut from above.

They're home.

I frantically cram all the stuff away so they won't notice my snooping. Ignoring my aching bones, I bound up the steps of the lab and pop out in the kitchen mere seconds before Dad appears in the hallway.

"Danno!" He seems surprised to see me. I'm surprised too. Surprised that my thermos was empty; surprised at what I just found in the basement. But, as my dad places a huge warm hand on the top of my head and asks me, genuinely, if I'm okay, I start to think maybe I'm just overthinking things. "You know what always makes me feel better?" he asks me, setting some grocery bags down on the floor and rooting around through them.

"Let me guess. Ranting about ghosts and fudge?" I try not to sound sarcastic. Thankfully, my dad is immune to wit.

He pauses, thrown, as if that was exactly what he was going to say, before he goes to the freezer instead. "No. Of course not. I was gunna say ice cream!" He brandishes a tub of neapolitan ice cream at me as if I'm seven years old again.

I pause, staring at it, before I shrug and grab a spoon.

"That's my boy." Dad grins as he breaks open the seal of the tub and grabs a spoon of his own.

.

.

"Don't be so _dramatic,_ " Sam sighs dramatically. She's peering at my phone screen, feet dangling off of the large couch in her media center where we've gathered. It swallows her in size. "I mean, what if this is just vitamins or something?"

Tucker grabs my phone from her hand and zooms in several times.

"Have you looked up what the ingredients are?" he asks.

"Couldn't find anything." Now I'm kicking myself for not opening it and taking a look at the pills to see if they're the same as my vitamins. The bottle definitely isn't over-the-counter: it's see-through orange and serious. "I'm no nutritionist, but if it's vitamins, shouldn't the ingredients say stuff like zinc and iron? I can't even pronounce half of these things... actually I can't pronounce _any_ of them."

"Hmm," Sam hums. She bites her lip, troubled.

"Maybe they're for a different Danny." Tucker perks up, looking at me triumphantly.

"A different Danny?" I'm skeptical.

"Yeah, like Danny _Phantom_." Tucker tosses my phone back at me like: Mystery solved. "Maybe these are some kind of weird Fenton meds they plan on giving you if they ever catch you."

I shiver at the idea.

"That _does_ make more sense," Sam admits.

"Maybe," I say, but I don't buy it. Since when have my parents ever called Phantom 'Danny'? There's something in that innocent yellow Post-It that makes my stomach squirm.

"Just ask your parents, if you're that worried about it," Sam says.

**.**

**.**

I don't ask my parents. I dunno why, but it seems like a Bad Idea. I also don't tell Tucker and Sam about Skulker. They would only get annoyed that I tried to let him out of the thermos without them, with half-mended broken ribs.

The thought that someone went into my room while I was asleep and ruffled through my things is uncomfortable. Already, I find myself blaming Vlad. After all, who else—

"—you listening to me?" My mother's voice rips me out of my thoughts. I blink. I've been shoveling sweet potatoes from one end of my plate to the other for the past ten minutes.

My family's throwing me funny looks. Even Jazz's eyes are peeled from her book. My dad's fork dangles over his untouched asparagus.

"Huh?"

"I was just telling you that your father and I are going to a conference next weekend, so Jazz will be in charge until we get back."

"Cool."

Jazz peers at me from over the top of a boring-looking textbook. I'd forgotten what Jazz's face looks like; she's had it stuck behind a book for the past month and a half. She's become a hybrid of her own— half girl, half book.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" Mom asks.

"Tired," I lie, shoving a forkful of potatoes into my mouth. They seem to grow larger and larger with each sequential chew, my appetite lost somewhere between vitamins, ice cream, and moldy chocolate chip cookies.

"Maybe you should go to bed early tonight. Get some rest," says Jazz's disembodied voice.

For a moment I consider arguing the point, but I nod instead. Anything to lock myself up in my room until I figure out how to explain what's happened in the last twenty-four hours.

"The SAT's are tomorrow," Jazz says suddenly, changing the subject. I let the attention be diverted, as usual, to my over-achieving sister. For once I'm thankful. My potatoes get scraped around my plate into clumps so it looks like I ate more than I did. From the look on my mom's face, I know I'm not fooling anyone.

"May I be excused?" I try to ask, but Jazz is chattering over me about her study techniques. Her posture is in it's stiff _'I'm an adult, no really— I am! Promise!'_ pose. I clear my throat a few times, before giving up and just getting up from the table. I can feel my parent's concerned eyes on the back of my head as I withdraw into my room for the night.

.

.

I lock the door before picking up my webcam. From the bookshelf above my desk, it should be able to record most of my room. I don't know who let Skulker out, but I figure I should make an attempt to find out.

I climb up on my desk chair and wedge the webcam in between _A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ and my unused dictionary. I shove it far enough back that it's hidden between the two books, deep in shadow. It winks a little red light out from the recess, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it.

With a few clicks I boot up my laptop and check to see what the feed looks like. There's a perfect view of my bed, my bedside table, and the doors to my closet. I frown a little, annoyed that I can't quite get the desk in it as well, but this'll have to do. I plug it into a spare hard drive and hit record, close my laptop so it looks like it's sleeping, and take a few steps back to admire my handiwork.

"I'm seriously paranoid." I say aloud to myself.

But, for some reason, my makeshift surveillance system makes me feel safer.

**.**

**.**

Sunday passes without incident. Monday rolls right on through. Tuesday I have an essay on _The Yellow Wallpaper_ in Lancer's class that I waited until the last minute to write. I spent all night struggling over my keyboard.

Wednesday I go skating with Sam and Tucker after school in celebration of narrowly avoiding a C- after Lancer cuts me some slack. Thursday I bag a small and pretty harmless ghost.

I completely forget about that little webcam and all the data it's recording. It isn't until Friday night when Sam and Tucker try to video chat me that I look at the top of my laptop and remember why my webcam is missing.

I lock my door and root around behind my books for the device. I plug the hard drive into my computer and open the video feed. This is some top-notch CSI shit. Anticipation vibrates the air. I wonder if I'm going to catch Vlad. Creeping around in a teenager's bedroom seems like something Vlad would do— creepy creep that he is. Skulker and him used to have some kind of agreement. It wouldn't surprise me. I know I shouldn't think this is fun, but some weird part of me gets a kick out of watching my week flash by in fast-forward.

Then things get _reeeeally_ dull. Each morning I zip around my room, each night I sleep undisturbed. No ghouls, no Vlad. I can't help but feel a tinge of disappointment. I don't know what I was expecting to find, but something— _anything—_ more interesting than myself. Do I really walk like that? I sit up a bit straighter in my chair. My life unfolds at mach-ten. The sun rises; the sun sets; the moon wanders. My eyes start to droop. My posture fades away and soon enough I'm slumped back against my desk. I watch myself return from catching that ghost on Thursday night and immediately hit my bed, hardly bothering to change.

10:45pm. I toss and turn in fast-forward, rolling around underneath the covers. My alarm clock speeds through time, the glowing red light illuminating my hair where my head pokes out from under the quilt.

11:20pm. The motion light outside pops on. Must be a raccoon.

11:25pm. The motion light pops off.

12:53am. Still nothing.

I sigh and I prop my head up, chin in my palm. At least I've stopped flopping around. It seems like I finally got into a deep sleep around one in the morning...

2:26am. I almost call it quits when there's a flurry of movement on screen.

A beam of light cuts through the bedroom and slices a sizzling white streak across my wall. I lean forward, fumbling around on my laptop to hit the play button. The video resumes normal speed. On the monitor two dark shapes move into my bedroom. Their shadows meander up the wall and almost kiss the ceiling as the light from the hallway traces the outline of their backs. Beads of sweat gather on my palms as the figures stand at the end of my bed and stare at my sleeping figure.

Then, the larger figure pulls back the sheets, exposing my head and my right arm. The smaller figure is writing notes on something. The person pauses and turns to observe my room. My fingers jolt, hitting pause. I peer until my nose is one inch from the screen in order to make out the figure's half-shrouded face.

"Mom?" I whisper. It can't be. I lean until my nose hits the screen. I have to be sure.

It's her, alright. There's no mistaking that red goggle glint. Which means the other one's my dad. My stomach tightens, sours. I press play and watch as my father runs some sort of vitals test on me. My pulse gets recorded, along with a scrape of DNA from my pillow. All of that's fine. Whatever. I can live with that. Until my mom pulls out a glowing green vial and taps the end of it while my father gently flips my right arm around, exposing the vulnerable bend of my elbow.

There's no mistaking it. No matter how much I don't want to believe it: That right there is my parents injecting me with what looks like ectoplasm.


	3. they tilt it from side to side

**YOU KNOW ALICE AND THE RABBIT HOLE?** Or Dorothy and the tornado? That's me: tumbling endlessly, hoping I'll pop out _somewhere_ at _some point_. Until then I'll sit and stare dumbstruck at the paused form of my mother, glowing green vial in hand.

The phone downstairs shrieks to life. I catapult out of my chair, spooked. I'm positive it's never been this loud before. Downstairs, Mom picks up the receiver.

"Dr. Madeline Fenton." Her voice drifts up the stairs.

I grasp at my elbow, rubbing along the crook of it over and over to try and find the injection site, but it's futile. My skin probably healed before I even woke up. But how did I _not_ wake up? With a click I exit the video and rip out the hard drive from my computer, shoving it in my jeans pocket. I'm not sure what to do with it, but I'm too afraid to let it out of my sight. It's the only proof I have that my entire life just derailed.

"Of course," Mom's saying. A pause. "We're still scheduled for 1:30?"

Who is she talking to? I remember Florida and how I never found out what she won. I _need_ to know this time.

I rip open my door and look out across the hallway at the wall phone. My hand hovers over the receiver, before I slowly ease the phone off its cradle. Barely breathing, I put it up to my ear to eavesdrop in.

Mom speaks up, "It's just that there _is_ such a thing as over-fertilizing, Darleen. Those poor flowers of yours are going to get smothered before spring even starts."

Fertilizer? Flowers? Darleen? The neighbor? None of these words make sense, nothing makes sense, nothing makes _any_ sense.

"I'm sorry?" a woman's voice asks. She laughs a little laugh. I've never heard Darleen laugh before. It's silicon. I shudder. Suddenly everything— the dirty carpet, my galaxy quilt, Jazz's rock and roll music— seems fake. I'm stuck in a demented cartoon world where everything is an over-bloated parody of the truth.

"Oh I have to go, my roast chicken is reanimating–"

The line goes dead.

Disheartened, I hang the receiver back onto its cradle. There's probably an explanation that involves something _other_ than my parent's injecting me with stuff without my permission. But the hard drive in my pocket is proof that _something_ happened last night. _Something._

I cross back into my room and lean on the windowsill as I take in a few deep breaths.

"Calm down," I tell myself.

I look out at Darleen's yard. Her car.

It's usually perched in her driveway. That car sits there as a giant rusty warning that Darleen's crouched behind her blinds, prepared to strike. It's how I'd known to avoid going on her lawn while growing up.

Her car isn't there. She isn't home.

Was that even her on the phone? I've only heard her voice a few times, all of them involving Darleen screeching at me. I've never heard her speak like a normal human being.

I look down at her yard. It's just grass. There's no plot of soil where flowers could be growing. Not even a flowerpot or one of those little wooden crates people plant herbs in.

"Danny?"

My skin leaves my body as I spin, finding my mom smiling at me in my doorway. My heart knocks at my tonsils, trying to leap out of my mouth.

Her smile falters. "Honey, what's wrong?"

"You startled me," I stammer. "I was... I was daydreaming."

"About what?"

I blurt out the first thing that comes to my head. "About cars. Uh— like daydreaming about when I can drive." I clench my hands to keep them from shaking.

Maddie chuckles.

"My clumsy son, driving around all on his own: A mother's worst nightmare," she teases as she slumps a bit against the doorframe. Her head tilts as if she just can't believe I'm growing up so fast. Or she's examining me. "Wash your hands and come down for dinner. I ordered take-out." She pushes off of the door frame and heads back downstairs.

.

.

I've always had trust issues with my parents, but the thought that _they've_ been lying to _me_ has never crossed my mind _._ Although I've always wondered why my parents (leading paranormal experts) never noticed their own son is half-ghost. My family's supposed to be geniuses. And yet, despite all their equipment going haywire around me, they've never figured it out. Now I know why. Because they already know. They _must_ know. The better questions are: Have they known this whole time? What's in that vial? What happened to Skulker? What's in that locked drawer? And what about my vitamins?

I can't tell them. Telling them feels stupid. All I know for certain is _they_ don't know that _I_ know that _they_ know, and I'm not about to give up the upper hand. Not yet— even though the rational side of me insists I'm overreacting. My parents love me. They'd never do this if it wasn't for my own benefit. But that voice from the lab isn't whispering anymore. It's screaming, drowning out everything. A crescendo of: Something is _wrong_. I wonder if that voice has been my rational side all along.

Friday night takes an age to pass. The only thing that keeps me pretending everything is normal is the weight of that hard drive in my pocket. I laugh a little too loud and try a little too hard to make up for the fact that everything familiar will, from this point on, be unfamiliar.

Dad tosses me the dice. I grab them up and look across the board game. My character, Mr. Green, is in the Conservatory with the Candlestick.

"Your move, Danny."

My move indeed.

.

.

I press my face to the living room window, watching as the Fenton RV reverses out of the driveway and putters off into the distance. My parents have left for the weekend, off to give a speech at some scientific convention. They didn't bother explaining what it was. I didn't ask.

"No funny business, little brother," Jazz tells me. She taps at her eye a few times, as if to say 'I'm watching you.' I try not to twist meaning into her words.

"No funny business," I echo.

Satisfied, she withdraws up the stairs. I immediately pull out my phone and call Sam and Tucker.

"What's up?" Tucker's the first to answer.

"You need to come over. Right now."

"Alright, alright. Anything potentially life-threatening I should know about? Any ghost hell-bent on destroying humanity as we know it that I should prepare for?" He laughs nervously at his own joke. I'm not laughing with him. The laugh peeters out awkwardly, lasting a few seconds too long. "Danny?" he pokes after a moment.

I'm struck mute at the possibility that my phone might be tapped. After all, my parents bought me this phone. I clam up, just to be safe.

"Everything's fine," I backpeddle. "I just _really_ need your opinion on something."

"Is this about Sam?" Tucker's voice turns mischievous. I'm too busy being a nervous wreck to figure out what that even means.

"Yes?" Would that get him over here quicker?

"Finally." I hear Tucker cracking his knuckles through the line. "I knew this day would come. Don't worry, Danny. I've been preparing for this. I'll be over in five minutes."

I look down at my phone; Tucker's gone, but Sam never picked up. I try her again. No answer.

.

.

Tucker's over in six and a half minutes. Not that I'm counting. He pants as he barrels through the front door. His scooter is flung haphazardly against the stoop.

"Hey," he greets as he undoes his helmet, fussing with his hair before hiding it anyway under his beret.

I've never been so happy to see Tucker. I grab him by the arm and tug him inside the house, through the living room, through the kitchen, and down the steps into the basement lab. Away from my sister, and next to that locked drawer.

"Whoah—" Tucker's muttering. "Why aren't we going to your room?"

"I need to show you something. I need you to tell me I'm not crazy."

"Crazy in love, maybe," Tucker snorts.

"What?" I ask distractedly as I boot up the computer and fish around in my pocket for the hard drive. I didn't sleep at all last night. The thought that my mom and dad might sneak into my room while I was unconscious made sleep impossible. Instead, I had traced my fingers along the contours of the hard drive nestled underneath my pillow, making sure it was still there, making sure it was safe.

I know I sound like a lunatic at this point, but I'm not gonna let my hard-drive get 86'd like Skulker.

"What's that?" Tucker asks. He grins at me. "You finally confess? I dunno, making a video is pretty corny—"

"Watch."

The video feed overtakes the monitor.

"Dude. What the hell. You filmed your room? I thought this was about Sam." Tucker's looking at me like I've gone off my rocker.

"Just watch." I repeat, fast-forwarding to Thursday night. I skim along until the light hits the wall before I hit play. I'm relieved to see it's still there. I hadn't imagined it. Tucker knocks me out of the way and peers down at the monitor.

"This is creepy," he says softly. "Who are these people?"

I stand back as I watch the figures at the foot of my bed. I can see the goosebumps on Tucker's arms. He's freaked. They move. Tucker hits pause a couple times, but says nothing as he watches them. When Maddie's face is revealed Tucker turns to me, eyes wide.

I point wordlessly back to the screen.

He looks ill, but turns back around and hits play again. He watches without speaking past the point where I watched. My father pulls the covers up. They move back out of my room and close the door behind them. The time stamp ticks onward. The small image of me curled up in my bed doesn't move. Tucker is silent, face pale.

"Well, this is... this is..." he stammers. It's rare when he doesn't know what to say.

"Tell me I'm wrong." I rub the crook of my elbow again.

"No— I mean— _damn._ " Tucker's mouth opens and closes a few times. I reach around and yank out the hard drive. There can't be any evidence of it ever playing on this computer.

"Can you... can you back this up for me?" I ask him softly, trying to appear unfazed.

"Of course, yeah." Tucker grabs the hard drive and plugs it into his PDA, starting a file transfer. He seems happy about having a task to complete.

"Thanks."

Long awkward silence. The progress bar ticks. 10%...11%...12%...

"What are you going to do?" Tucker finally asks.

I move my lips to say 'I don't know.'

"Find the truth," comes out instead.

.

.

Tucker and I stand in front of the locked drawer. Our heads tilt back and forth as we inspect it from different angles.

"It's this one?" Tucker asks.

I nod and uncross my arms, aim, and fire a tiny blast down at the lock. The shot ricochets off and Tucker lets out a yell, ducking as the green ectoblast singes his beret and scorches a black spot in the cement wall behind him.

"You okay?"

"I'm good," he squeaks. "Be careful with that thing." Tucker shoves my outstretched hand away from him. Despite the situation I can't help but snort.

"Hmm..." I tap a bit at the lock. A flicker of pain bites at my fingertip where the metal connects, as if the lock has tiny razor teeth. It feels like getting shocked with the Spectre Deflector. "There's some sort of anti-ecto shield coating this. I can't phase through it."

Now I _really_ need to know what's in this drawer.

"I don't suppose you have the key?" Tucker jokes nervously.

I ignore him and press my ear close to the keyhole to hear if anything rattles inside. There's the distinct sound of something round rolling across paper. Muffled, but there.

"You could just blast the thing apart from the other side with one of your parents… things..." Tucker looks around the laboratory. "There's gotta be something here that'll do the trick."

I frown. "My parents would see that. Plus, I don't want to destroy whatever's in there. I think there's a lot of papers and stuff." My voice wavers at the idea that this drawer has all the answers. "We could pick it," I suggest, instead.

Tucker roots around for something to use. I grab a pencil from atop the table and poke at the lock to test it out. Despite the fact that my finger isn't directly touching the drawer, that gnawing pain still travels through the pencil and into the palm of my hand. I drop it with a grimace. My hand cramps like I've been writing non-stop.

"We need one of those hair clips Paulina uses," I tell Tucker, rubbing my hand.

"Maybe Jazz has one."

The door to the lab pops open. Tucker and I jump and spin in unison, our backs blocking the locked drawer from sight. I try and clear the guilty look off my face before whoever is there notices.

"Sam's here." Jazz's head pokes down into the lab. She pauses. "What are you two doing? Looking at porn or something?"

"No!" I deny, blood rushing to my face. Tucker does nothing to back me up. He's frozen, mouth agape. I elbow him sharply in the ribs and he manages to shake his head back and forth vigorously. Jazz looks suspiciously between the two of us. Her lips curl into a painful-looking grimace.

"Nevermind. I don't even want to know. I'll just send Sam down, then," Jazz says. "Careful with Mom and Dad's stuff. We don't want a repeat of the whole portal thing."

Her head disappears and the floor above creaks as Jazz moves through the kitchen.

"Neither of you have a working cellphone anymore?" Sam asks as she descends the steps into the lab. Her phone is in her hand. She waves it at us, irritated. I glance over at my cellphone, which is face down, forgotten, on the computer desk. Tucker's PDA is still uploading the file. 34%...35%...

Sam frowns when she sees our expressions. "Who died?"

"Do you have a hairpin?" I ask.

She fishes in her hair. As she tugs a bobby-pin out, her bangs fall from her bun.

"Here." She hands it over. "Why?"

Tucker grabs it and shoves me a little out of the way, bending over the locked drawer. "I saw this on YouTube," he explains as he bends the hairpin out of shape.

"Hey!" Sam scowls, watching her pin get utterly deformed. "Can someone please tell me what is going on?"

I don't really want to explain. The explanation would sound ridiculous. I'd rather her just watch the video for herself, but it's currently being digitized into the cloud. I watch Tucker pick around inside the lock, eyes narrowed into focused glints. He presses his ear up to it as if that will help. The two of us stand by as he jiggles it around. After a minute of struggling he sighs and straightens up.

"This looked a lot easier in the movies," he admits.

"Let me try." I grab the pin and move to stick it into the lock, but the instant it hits the metal my hand complains. I hiss. The shock of it makes me light-headed.

"Dude." Tucker looks at me like I'm stupid.

"Let me," Sam plucks her pin off of the floor and turns it around in her hand. "You know, I've actually picked several locks before."

"You have?" I'm impressed. "Why?"

Those dark lips unfurl into a cheshire grin. "Why don't you boys tell me what is going on, and I'll jimmy this drawer open," Sam says impishly, tossing the bobby pin a few times up into the air.

I chew on the inside of my cheek for a moment. Tucker goes silent, his eyes darting between the two of us. The PDA flashes 58%...59%...

"Alright." I tell her everything.


	4. making different parts of me

**I'VE NEVER SEEN** Sam so murderous. Underneath a lot of that anger is fear. Sam would rather punch and rant than be afraid. As soon as the video upload completes she demands to watch it. She repeats it several times, as if she can't quite believe it.

"This is sick." She's said it over and over. "This is really sick, Danny."

"I'm trying not to jump to conclusions," I say. Afterall, these are my _parents_ we're talking about. I feel afraid and trusting of them, all at the same time. I don't really know how that's possible.

"You're like… one of those frogs."

I'm not sure what to say to that, so I let her keep scrubbing that little progress bar back, looping in on my mother injecting me. It's at the tenth time that I take Tucker's PDA from her and toss it back to him.

"What are you going to do?" She wants action, some kind of way to resolve this, but I don't have it.

"I'm going to start with opening this drawer," I tell her. It's the only thing I can think of doing right now: Scour this entire house for any answers while my parents are away.

Sam's purses her lips into a hairline. She turns to the drawer with grim determination. "Oh, don't worry. I'll open it." She says this with the unwavering confidence that only Sam Manson possesses.

.

.

Sam takes several tries before getting close to cracking the lock. Each time she fails, she unleashes a frustrated growl and tries again. Her face is half shrouded as she works, lips moving back and forth in adorable twitches of concentration. I realize I've been staring and I look up to see Tucker giving me a pointed look. He raises an eyebrow suggestively. I ignore him.

"I think I got it," Sam announces, her fingertips frozen in place as she carefully twists the pin. The lock gives way with a soft pop. She grins triumphantly. "That's right. Bow down."

"Sam, you diabolical thief," Tucker cheers.

"You're amazing." I could kiss her. She blushes for a moment, tossing me a shy smile, before the brief flush of victory drains out of us and we remember why we're opening this drawer in the first place.

"Ready?" Sam asks me. Her hand hovers nervously above the drawer.

"No," I say. "But do it."

She nods and grabs the handle. Tucker and I gather close behind. I'm not sure what to prepare for.

The first thing I see is one of my mother's ectoguns. This one is sleek and new and the ammunition is full. I grab it out of the drawer and disconnect the pod to look closer at the ectoplasm in it. As I tilt the pod back and forth the liquid flows freely, low in viscosity. In fact, the pod weighs nothing. It's glow is constant, unwavering; the greenest of greens. It's purer than any kind of ectoplasm I've seen, besides my own.

"Danny," Sam's saying. "Look at this."

In her hands is a vial full of the same pure ectoplasm; a vial very similar to the one that Maddie had in the video. She spins it around. There's another sticky note on it. I'm starting to really hate these Post-Its. One word, a name, just like on that prescription bottle. It says: _Skulker._

Skulker. Skulker, who had told me I couldn't die; who had begged to go inside my Thermos, as if he needed to escape something, or some _one_. Skulker, who was a ghost. Ghosts were made up of pure ectoplasm. Ectoplasm like what was in that vial. Ectoplasm like what was—

"Something tells me this isn't supposed to be used _on_ Skulker," Tucker's grin is pained.

The room warps. My skin crawls. Is this all that's left of him? Had I unintentionally doomed Skulker by putting him in my room for my mother to find? What happened to all the other ghosts I've caught? And then a worse thought creeps into my mind: Are they all just recycled and shot into my arm while I'm asleep?

"Hey, whoah. Easy. Breathe, Danny." Sam's hand steadies my arm. She hides the vial in her bag so I can't see it, her eyes swimming in front of my face.

"I'm fine," I mumble.

"Tucker, the—"

A chair squeaks from behind me. Sam's hands grasp me roughly by my shoulders. My vision is fading into _white dots, circular white light, I'm blind, Sam's voice is blotted out by screaming in my ears, helplessness, the portal—_

When the fog clears I feel like I've taken a shower. My shirt sticks to my chest, clinging to the cold sweat. I have no idea how long I've been out of it. I feel like I've just run a marathon. Like I've just sprinted the last mile and I'm in between collapsing or puking.

"—didn't know he'd freak!"

"Of course he freaked! You need to be more sensitive."

Their voices fade back in and begin to make sense. I'm sitting in the desk chair, but I don't remember how I got here. Tucker and Sam are holding onto my shoulders, keeping me leaning back into it.

"Danny?" Sam sees that I'm holding myself up on my own.

"Sorry." I've got enough of my wits back to know I've just fainted over a Post-It, in front of Sam. There's drool on my chin. I might die of embarrassment.

"Why would _you_ be sorry?" she asks.

They both slowly let go of my shoulders. I manage to keep myself steady in the chair. I want to stand up to prove to them that I'm not as unnerved as I look, but Sam shoves me back with a firm press of her palm.

"Stay put for a while."

"You went all zombie on us," Tucker jokes.

Sam shoots him a dirty look and he shuts up, looking properly chastised. "Maybe we should take a break? We can finish going through the drawer later."

"No." It flies out of my mouth. "I need to know. Now."

Sam shifts from foot to foot.

"I'm _fine_ ," I stress.

"That's what you said right before you nearly fell on us," Tucker chuckles nervously.

I shove Sam's hand off my chest and stand up. My heart thuds sickly in my chest but I ignore it. Just like I ignore the beginnings of a headache brewing behind my eyes.

"Alright," Sam says. She turns back to the drawer and pulls out a letter and a bunch of loose-leaf readouts. "That's everything."

"What about the pills?" I root around in all the drawers, but can't find the bottle that was there last week. My parents must have moved it. Do they know that I've been snooping? I swallow.

"No pills. Just these." Sam hands me the readouts.

I thumb through the pages, but can't make sense of anything. There's hardly any labelling on them and even when there is they're all jumbled numbers and letters. I pause when I hit an important-looking graph. I don't know what it's a graph of, but there's two tracks. One line graph— which goes through extreme ups and downs— is labelled E1-M. The other line graph— which increases steadily over time— is labelled E2-F.

"Dr. Madeline Fenton, we would be honored for you to present your research at our upcoming _Our Next Leap Forward_ retreat…" Tucker reads aloud from the letter. "The retreat takes place on Saturday March 24th and Sunday March 25th, and will host different seminars on topics ranging from Cloning to Cryogenics…"

"That's today," Sam mumbles.

"Does it say what time they're supposed to talk?" I ask.

Tucker flips the paper over and looks down at the schedule. "1:30."

"What time is it right now?"

Sam glances down at her plastic bat-patterned watch. "1:02."

"Do you think they're broadcasting this anywhere?"

.

.

Tucker's searching away on my computer, scanning the _Our Next Leap Forward_ website. There's photos of lots of people in white science-y coats, posing in front of different inventions.

"Dedicated to advancing the human body through science, technology, and discovery." Tucker reads.

Sam snorts from her position next to me on my bed. "Sounds like a bunch of elitists with too much money desperately trying not to get old."

"Advancing the human body? Like solving male baldness or acne?" I ask hopefully, knowing in my heart that the answer's a no.

"I thought your parents studied _ghosts_ not people?" Tucker spins around in my desk chair, shooting me a look, before going back to the laptop.

Ghosts _are_ people. Right? But… he's got a point. My parents have never shown any interest in _living_ things, so why speak at a retreat on the body? I churn that around in my head, the thought souring and curdling the more I stew on it.

"Ah-ha. Here's a live stream."

A stage unfolds as the video buffers. It's 1:27. A middle-aged woman with too much botox stands at a podium. Her smile looks strained and permanent. That, coupled with her huge hair, makes her seem a little unstable. There's enough zeal in that smile to rule an entire country. She waggles her microphone around, her voice cutting in and out a bit with each nervous tremor.

"Our next speaker has been working quietly in the background for many, many years. She is prepared to share some of her research for the first time with us today. It is my absolute pleasure to invite Dr. Madeline Fenton to the stage."

There's a soft knock on my door and all three of us freeze.

"Danny?" Jazz opens the door a bit. "Have you guys eaten any lunch?"

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from telling her to go away. My hesitation is taken as a no and Jazz barges into my room, sandwiches in hand. She pauses when she sees all of us huddled around my monitor.

"Is that Mom?" she asks.

I'm suddenly hit with the terrible idea that Jazz might be in on all this too and that she's going to turn me in. But she's smiling and plopping herself right in between Sam and I. Sam mutters darkly as Jazz accidentally elbows her. She's completely oblivious to Sam's 'no touching' rule.

I grab half of a sandwich. My hand hitches when I catch sight of my vitamins on a napkin.

Jazz notices my pause. "Mom told me to make sure you take them."

Sam is rigid next to me. She's grinding her teeth so loudly I'm practically drowning in her disapproval.

"Why don't _you_ have to take these?" I ask Jazz. I watch her facial expression for any sign that she knows more than she's letting on.

She shrugs. "Maybe they're a boy thing? I dunno. Just get it over with." She picks up the glass of water from the tray and hands it to me.

I take the water from her and grab the pills. Just as I go to put them in my mouth, I drop them down my sleeve. Sam and Tucker stare at me, thinking I actually took them. They don't need to worry. Ever since finding that prescription bottle in the basement last week I haven't taken my vitamins. I've perfected this sleight of hand, going so far as to keep the pills in my palm and then turn my hand intangible conveniently over the garbage can. I take a gulp of water, swallow, and show my tongue to Jazz like a prison inmate, mouth empty.

On the monitor Mom's finally on stage. She's pristine in a pressed white lab coat, her hair in a bob sharp enough to cut paper. A calm smile flickers across her face; she's unfazed by the size of the audience. There's a single sheet of paper sitting atop the podium, but she doesn't even glance at it.

"When I was fourteen my grandfather died," A pause, a ducked head, as if to mourn. No one moves. No one even sneezes or coughs. She continues, each word slow and deliberate.

"I remember feeling as though he had slipped through some kind of void. He had moved into a place I couldn't follow. Where had he gone? What had happened to him? And then it hit me: If he could die, could I die too? Could I be swallowed by that abyss? The thought terrified me."

This is the first time I've heard my mom talk about this. Sure, she talks about ghosts all the time. But death? I frown and glance over at Jazz. She's twisting her hair around her finger, eyes wide.

"I've since dedicated my life to understanding death and all of its inevitability. So many of us choose to extend life by studying the living. I, on the other hand, believe the secret lies in understanding what happens to us post-mortem."

She has their attention. Sometimes I forget just how genius my mother is. It's scary, how brilliant she is.

"Belief, emotion, logic— all made possible by one mystery: The human consciousness. It is a cornerstone of life that eludes precise definition, yet is absolutely vital to our existence. Fundamental laws of nature decree that energy cannot be created nor destroyed. Is it possible, then, that consciousness, in some form, survives the body?"

A pause. Maddie takes a sip of water from a glass on her podium as she waits for the audience to soak that in. "This brings me to a topic you have all been, undoubtedly, anticipating: Ghosts."

There's a smattering of soft laughter. Obviously my parent's reputation precedes them, although I'm surprised at the lack of snickering and whispered doubts.

"The word 'ghost' is riddled with connotations of paganism and witchcraft. Regardless, they exist." The audience is no longer laughing. "My husband and I have succeeded in obtaining many stable specimens of post-human matter." —her clinical handwriting, a Post-It Note labelled: _Skulker—_ "Matter, because these remnants of consciousness— or echoes of the soul, if you will— sustain themselves through a unique substance I call Ectoplasm."

Maddie's hand darts into her lab coat. She holds up a familiar glowing green vial. The audience is suddenly restless, craning their necks, whispering to one another, jostling to get a closer look.

"Besides being a cleaner and safer energy source than nuclear power, it has the potential to produce absolutely _amazing_ effects on—"

The video freezes.

"Tucker!" I yell. He's already tapping at the video feed, pressing it on and off, refreshing the page, reloading it, clearing the cache, but nothing works. Maddie is frozen holding that vial, once again, on my computer screen.

"Dammit!" I hiss.

"Jeeze. Calm down, Danny." Jazz looks at me funny. "Since when have you cared about what Mom and Dad do for a living anyways?"

"They cut it off on _purpose_."

Tucker shoots me a warning look.

"Who's 'they'?" Jazz asks tentatively.

I rub my temples in frustration. Although, the idea that my parents could have caused the stream to pause is ridiculous. Instead of answering her, I stuff my face with the rest of my sandwich, chewing without taste to give myself something to do.

Sam comes to my rescue, right on cue. She rolls her eyes. "The NSA must have a thing against ghosts."

"Or maybe against boring science fairs," Tucker tacks on with a peal of fake laughter.

Jazz has the look on her face of someone that wants to be in on the joke, but doesn't get it. "I guess…" She gets up and gathers the plates together. "You guys are kinda weird, you know that?"

"Thanks." Sam grins brightly.

"I'm sure Dad filmed her speech," Jazz says as she moves from the room, "I'll tell them you want to see it when they get back."

"Great," I squeak. "Just great." Then a thought hits me. "Hey, Jazz," I call out.

She pauses, hand still on my bedroom door. "What?"

"Did Mom give you the bottle of my vitamins?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Can I… Can I see it?"

.

.

"This is like _Sherlock_ ," Tucker babbles. "Am I Watson?"

I had shared a similar sentiment, until I'd realized just how real this was and just how devastating all of this could be. Sam opens her mouth angrily, but I beat her to it. "This isn't a TV show, Tucker. This is my life," I snap, more harshly than intended.

Tucker flushes and nods.

"Sorry," I sigh. My anger bleeds away, leaving a pounding in my head. I know Tucker is just trying to lighten the mood. God knows one of us has to. It's part of why Tucker and I are friends. He can laugh at everything I want to cry at; at everything that Sam wants to scream at. Only this time his nervous joking hits a little too close to home.

"This isn't the same bottle." I tell them, changing the subject. The bottle in my hand is white with a blue label that says: _One Daily for Men, High Potency Multivitamin Supplement._ I pull my phone out and compare it to the photo of the bottle I'd seen before. The one from before is bright orange with a childproof white top.

"My dad takes these," Sam suddenly voices, eyes blazing with inspiration. She takes the bottle from my hand to examine it. "At least, I'm _pretty_ sure it's the same label. We could go compare the vitamins in this to the ones at my house."

She puts it in her bag. As she opens it a faint green glow emits from within and I remember the vial with Skulker's name on it. My mouth goes dry.

"What… what do you think she was about to say right before the video feed cut out?"

Sam and Tucker turn to look at me like they both have an idea, but they don't want to say it aloud. I have an idea too. A horrible idea.


	5. smoke and squirm

**HALF OF ME EXPECTED THIS;** half of me wants to believe the other half is wrong. Ok, maybe not half. More like a fourth and that fraction is decreasing as I stand here, staring down at Sam's kitchen countertop.

The U.S.S. Hope has sunk, leaving me stranded in a lifeboat which capsized at the contents of the drawer. These vitamins are my lifejacket, the only thing I have left between me and an ocean of despair. And now, looking my pink 'vitamins' versus Sam's dad's white ones, I can hear the air whistling out of my preserver. This ocean fills me with dread, unlike the one in Florida that had looked and sounded so peaceful.

"This might not be what you think," Sam's trying to tell me, but I can see in her eyes that it's _exactly_ what I think.

I shake my head once, twice, three times… hoping that each time I look back down at those pills they'll miraculously be the same and this was all for naught, but each time they're different. I doubt that Sam's dad is reusing old vitamin bottles. Just like I doubt my vitamins are _Once Daily For Men_ multivitamins.

"You okay?" Tucker asks, concerned when I say nothing for a long moment.

 _No, Tucker. I'm not okay._ I bite down on my lip to keep from snapping at him. The kitchen spins. I lean into the counter and rest my forehead down against the cool marble, wrapping my arms up protectively around my head. Tucker and Sam don't speak, but I can smell their worry. It's stiflingly loud.

"Say it," I mumble against the counter, unable to stomach their silence.

Sam's hand rests on my shoulder, but I shrug it off, lifting my head back up off of the counter to look her directly in the eye.

"Tell me what you think is going on," I demand.

She purses her lips and takes her hand back.

"There's a video of my mom and dad injecting me with ectoplasm while I'm asleep. Skulker's missing from my thermos. There's a vial with his name on it in a ghost-shielded drawer. My mom is at some human body conference talking about ectoplasm, of which the live stream mysteriously cut out, and now my vitamins don't match up," I tick off. "Did I forget anything?"

"Those scientific graphs and charts." Tucker supplies from my right. He's sitting on the kitchen counter, trying to pull up information on the pill's ingredients on his PDA. So far the search has yielded zero results. I still don't know what they're for, or why my mother has insisted I take them for the better part of a year.

Right. I had almost forgotten about that graph. I pull it out of Sam's purse and lay it out on the countertop. I scan the two plots again and glare down at the numbers and letters as if to intimidate them into revealing what they stand for.

"E1-M," I say aloud, tapping the letter accusingly. Like a bolt of lightening, it totally makes sense. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. I've been so wrapped up in my own life I haven't taken a step back to consider the larger picture. But now that I _have_ thought of it, I know I'm right. After all, in this new world where my parents are more devious than I've given them credit for, it only makes sense.

"Vlad _Masters_." I swallow, pointing at the volatile line graph. E1-M. "And me." I point at the stable line graph. E2-F. "Daniel _Fenton."_

Sam breathes heavily, leaning over my shoulder. Tucker hops off of the countertop to join us. His PDA lies abandoned on the marble.

"Holy shit." Tucker's eyes are glassy behind his lenses, jaw unhinged. "You think they made Plasmius on _purpose_?"

"I don't know," I mutter. "But whether or not it was an accident, my parents know about Vlad. They've been watching him too."

"Do you really want to know what I think?" Sam asks darkly.

"That I've been my parent's experiment for the past six months?" I toss out, my voice high, yet strangely calm. "That Danny Phantom is their creation?"

There. It's out. I've said it. It's real.

Sam's alarmed. Her gaze sweeps across my face back and forth. I can tell she isn't sure how to react to this nonchalant-in-the-face-of-life-changing-information Danny; this whatever-Danny. She has this look like she's preparing for a breakdown of some kind at any moment. I feel impossibly light though. For some reason I'm grinning. It's funny.

"We could be wrong, you know," she says slowly, trying to toss me one last life raft, but I don't take it. It's too late for denial, I'm onto the next stage. I'm done pretending this is all one giant misunderstanding. Weren't my parents always the ones that told me to think logically? To examine all the evidence? To propose a hypothesis based on the facts presented?

"Do _you_ think I'm wrong?"

"…No," Sam admits. Her saying this aloud makes me feel better.

"Tucker?"

He glances up, giving me grave frown. "No, dude. We're all thinking it. It makes sense."

Of course it does. The more I think about it the more sense it makes. The cluelessness as to why I come home so late. Why I'm nearly always covered in bruises, yet my mother never seems to worry. The way the medical supply closet is always magically refilling despite me depleting it each month. How I can be standing directly in front of my parents as the Boo-merang shrieks that I'm a ghost and _still_ they don't notice. The only piece I don't understand is: Why?

I rest my head back down against the marble. My eyes feel like they're burning in their sockets. A lot of this still hasn't processed, but besides a bizarre giddiness and a pounding headache I'm feeling pretty alright.

"Do you have any pain killers?" I ask Sam.

.

.

I chuck one of Sam's light up bouncy-balls against a band poster in her room. The lead singer winks back with a casualness that I hate right now, so I keep throwing the ball against her face. It hits with a thunk and rebounds. _Ba-dum-chh._ I catch it and chuck it again. _Ba-dum-chh._ It's the twenty-ish time of throwing it when Sam stalks over and snatches it out of the air. She jams it in her desk drawer and swirls to look down at me. I instantly feel childish.

"Stop it," she warns.

I let my hand fall back against her super soft carpet, a little sad to have lost the distraction.

"I'm worried about you," she breathes, plopping down across from me. She ducks her head to catch my gaze. "What are you thinking?"

I'm silent for a long moment, pondering that question. For the past ten minutes I had been doing my best to avoid thinking whatsoever. That was the whole point of the ball. I liked that little ball-world full of black glitter and miniature skulls. A world absent of scientific parents and Skulker's remains oozing in Sam's vegan leather purse.

"Danny?" Sam prompts. "Talk to me?"

I cough the cobwebs out of my throat. "They come back tomorrow night," I muse. "They'll realize the pills are missing. They'll see Skulker… is missing. They'll know that I know."

Sam nods.

"We could put everything back the way it was," Tucker speaks up. He's lying across Sam's bed, playing a video game on his PDA while I've been zoning out.

Sam shoots him a look over my shoulder.

"He can't avoid this," she says. "He _shouldn't_ avoid this. Even if we put everything back and they don't notice, they'll keep doing what they're doing." She avoids directly saying it, but I know she means the tests they do on me in my sleep.

"I could run," I suggest offhandedly.

The two of them stare at me. Tucker lowers his PDA. It slips out of his hand and onto Sam's black ruffled comforter. Sam's eyes have nearly overtaken her face. They're huge and fearful and heartbroken.

"If your parents are the ones giving you your powers, you run you might lose them," she whispers. "You might… who knows…"

I stare back down at the carpet. I don't find the idea of normal Danny Fenton super upsetting. Flying… flying I would miss the most. But, leaving Sam and Tucker… that isn't an option. Running means losing everything I care about; everything I've ever known. Pretty quickly I realize running isn't a choice. Not really.

"I won't run," I promise. "But I can't go back and pretend everything's okay either."

So that only really leaves me one path. My least favorite one, but the one I seem to walk the most: confrontation.

.

.

Tucker's parents call him home around ten. He leaves with a pat on my back and a promise that he'll see me in the morning; that we'll figure out a plan. Jazz has been trying to reach me on my cellphone since nine. Besides sending her a text that I'm at Sam's, I ignore her. I know it isn't fair, but Jazz doesn't even know about me being Phantom. I wonder what her reaction is going to be to all of this. Thinking about it makes me exhausted.

It's around midnight when Sam can't help but sink into her bed. Her breaths even out, punctuated by tiny snores.

I suppose I should head home instead of watch Sam sleep, but I can't bring myself to leave. I don't want to go home. Her bed is too spacious and safe. The ratio is off: It's more pillow than bed. I sit on the edge of it and roll onto my side, the covers reaching up to envelop me like a hug.

Ten minutes. I'll just lay here for ten minutes before heading back to Jazz and all her lectures…

.

.

I wake to a bedroom door cracking open and a vertical beam of light creeping across carpet.

_No._

Not again. I have to flee. Now.

I dip myself into invisibility and phase through the bed, hiding underneath. It isn't until I see a pair of pink high-heels that I remember I'm in _Sam's_ room and this is _Sam's_ mom. I'm safe. At least, safe from injections. Not safe from what Mrs. Manson would do if she found me asleep next to her daughter.

Sam mumbles something.

"Oh, I didn't mean to wake you," Mrs. Manson soothes. Her very lethal-looking stiletto is inches from my eye socket. "I just wanted to check in on you."

"I'm still here," Sam announces sullenly.

"Alright. Go back to sleep. Goodnight, honey." A pop of a kiss. She shuts Sam's bedroom door and moves down the hallway outside, her heels _click-clicking_ against expensive wood flooring.

Sam waits about a minute before she addresses the empty room. "Danny?"

I poke my head back up through her bed.

"I'm still here." I mimic, although I can't quite nail her tone of voice. It's impossible to imitate, that Manson-level brattiness.

"It's almost one."

I glance at her clock as I pluck myself up through her bed and back on top of it. So it was. I had slept for an hour and I still feel like shit. Those two Advils Sam had given me earlier have done nothing to dampen this growing headache.

"I fell asleep," I tell her as I run a hand through my disheveled hair.

"You're really pale," Sam notes.

"I think I'm getting a cold."

"That's just what you need right now." She pauses. "Ew, you got your germs all over my bed."

I snort and grab a pillow, shoving it in her face. Sam shrieks but the sound is muffled. Flailing gangly girl-limbs nail me right in the rib, her elbow knocking the wind from my lungs. I'm surprised by how much it hurts.

She's giggling. I mean _chuckling,_ because Sam insists she never giggles.

I rub the spot tenderly. "Geeze, what do you do, sharpen those in your spare time?"

Sam makes a pencil-sharpener motion around the tip. "You never know when you'll have to puncture some ghost teen's lung with your elbows."

"Ouch," I pout, placing my hand over my heart. "That hurt."

Sam watches me with amusement as I get off her bed and walk towards her window. Her face falls a bit as I transform, preparing to head home before Jazz has an aneurism.

"Come back, I didn't mean it," she says forlornly.

"Somehow I doubt that. Anyways, I have to go. Jazz will start growing grey hair."

"I'll see you tomorrow. We're going to figure this out. It will be okay."

"Yeah."

"Will _you_ be okay?"

I rattle that around in my head for a minute. "I hope so."

I predict she's not going to like my answer, but she smiles. "That's the first time you've answered that question honestly," she says from deep within all the pillows of her bed. As I spin to leave she calls my name.

"What?"

"It's time," Sam whispers. Her eyes are sleepy, but serious. "You have to tell your sister what's going on."

.

.

The clock on my bedside tables flashes 1:09am as I phase through my window into my bedroom.

With a burst of light I transform back, taking a moment to lean against the wall when the sudden rush of blood to my head leaves me dizzy. There's a faint rushing noise that I think is coming from behind my eardrums, but, as I regain my bearings I realize it isn't going away. I frown.

The small stereo with the CD of ocean noises is still playing at the lowest volume setting. The sound of it has always comforted me, but an indomitable rage is building. It simmers, froths, boils, explodes. _She_ bought this for me. Suddenly the CD is malicious. It's Mom singing a lullaby, knife behind her back. This entire time I've been beneath the surface. Dumb. Compliant to their schemes. No longer.

I stomp across my room and rip out the CD from the drive. The machine _eeeerts._ I take one last look at it before it's flipping through the air and blasted into a million pieces with a quick, deadly, accurate ectoray. The pieces scatter, smoking. It isn't enough. My inner child shrieks, demanding _more._ More destruction. I yank my webcam from my desk and fling it against the far wall. It hits with a loud thud and little bits of plastic spiral off around my closet. More carnage. I rip my books from my shelf and fling them onto the floor, giving them a good kick just because it feels good.

I'm halfway through burning up every pencil on my desk, bursting them into tiny little fires with surges of ghostly energy, when my door slams open. It whips around, rebounds off of my wall with a booming thud, and flies back to nearly hit Jazz in the face.

"What the HELL are you doing?" Jazz screams from the hallway. She looks like a banshee— hair swiveled around her head, figure shrouded in shadow, pajamas wrinkled from sleep. Her fists clench against her sides. "Do you have any idea how _late_ it is? How _worried_ I've been?"

I hide the pencil I was charring behind my back. My anger whooshes out, leaving me shaky and embarrassed; my chest aches all deflated and, like a balloon forgotten in the sun, I just want to sink to the floor. Tears have welled up in the corners of my eyes. I wipe them away— quickly— before Jazz can see. She's squinting in the low light of my room. My collection of ruined things across the bedroom floor goes unnoticed, for now.

I lurch forward and grab her by the arm when she starts to barrel into my room with bare feet.

"Don't—"

"Let _go_. You— W-What happened?" Jazz pauses, seeing the sharp bits of CD and how her bare foot almost stepped right on top of one. Her eyes dart across the ripped up books and the broken webcam. She looks down at me. "Danny? Why did you do this?"

I'm so tired.

I sit on the floor to join the carnage. I feel awful. Half a second ago all I had wanted to do was scream and throw a fit. Now all I want to do is cry. Instead I take in a few gulping breaths.

Jazz crouches down next to me, her gaze wide and concerned.

"I have to tell you something. Something really important," I whisper. "Promise not to freak."

A pause. A concerned older-sister-y hand on my shoulder. "Okay. I promise."

I suck in a deep breath and plant my fingers into the carpet. Here it goes.

"I'm Danny Phantom. I'm half-ghost."

 _Smooth, Fenton. Real smooth._ I can't help it, it just blurts out of my mouth without any preamble, without any explanation. As it leaves me my chest feels lighter. I look up to see how she's taking the news, finding Jazz… Jazz is grinning. Her eyes sparkle in the low light.

"I know. I've known for a while now."

"You know? How?" What all did she know? My heart catches and trips. Panic churns in my stomach, seizing control of my muscles, making them stiff, pinning my arms to my sides.

"Hey," Jazz says softly. Her hand doesn't leave my shoulder. "It wasn't that hard to figure out. Anyway— I saw you transform at school a few months ago." Her eyes search mine earnestly.

"Why didn't you say something?" I ask as I stare at her in disbelief.

She shrugs. "I figured you'd tell me eventually. Don't worry. I won't tell Mom and Dad. Not until you're ready. I think it's _great_ what you do."

"You do?" I echo.

She looks at me like: It's really that simple. "Yeah. I do."

I slump. Silence.

Jazz sighs and pats me on the shoulder a few times. "Want to tell me what this is all about?" She makes a gesture at the floor.

I look around my room for a moment, my head throbbing, my body shivering. I'll tell her. Later. Tomorrow. After I feel a bit better and before our parents come home. One revelation is all I can handle right now. I have a feeling this other secret will tear our family apart. And I can't do that. So I chicken out.

"Ghost," I lie.

I can't tell if Jazz believes me or not. She always seems to see right through me, but she doesn't pry— for once. Instead she helps me sweep the majority of sharp objects off my carpet. She smiles the entire time. It only makes me feel guiltier for not just telling her the whole truth.

I churn in my bed, sifting over different scenarios, different ways to break the news to her. How will she react? What will happen when my parents come home? I envision, in great detail, how I want tomorrow to go. I get pretty confident I can handle it, that it will be okay. Night has a way of doing that to a person. You can convince yourself for hours it's fine, craft a plan, craft a plan atop that plan, make failsafes, but that first ray of sunlight reveals your plans as shit. You're still screwed.

I breathe out slowly and close my eyes. Tomorrow morning. I'll tell her then. Right when I wake up.


	6. inspecting without compassion

**I'M PLAGUED BY NIGHTMARES.**

I don't remember what they're about, but they leave behind a festering wound: Hopelessness.

When my alarm clock shrieks it feels like I'm still dreaming. I move to whack it, but my hand is too uncoordinated to shut it off. The sound pierces through my head. What had begun as a level-three headache has progressed, overnight, into a level-ten migraine. My mouth tastes funny. My sheets are damp with sweat. I swallow the urge to vomit as I try and push myself up, but my body ignores my brain— my hand goes left when I tell it to go right. Disoriented, it takes me a full minute to roll myself out of bed. I sway on the edge as my feet hit the carpet. My chest feels strange. It's tight, hard to breathe.

Whatever this is... it isn't a cold. Clumsily, I press my fingertips to my eyes. The bedroom is bathed in fuzzy darkness— yet I can hear birds chirping outside. My alarm is set for 9:00am. The sun _should_ be up and my room _should_ be light. A thrum of panic races through me when I realize my vision is messed up. Everything is blurry and shadowed. Maybe this is still a nightmare?

Using my bedside table to prop me up, I hobble across the room to my mirror.

Two blurry Danny Fenton's peer back at me. My faces are waxen and sweaty; my eyes sunken. White, black, blue, and… red? I blink stupidly a few times and squint, not trusting my eyesight. Each time I blink the red is still there.

I raise a trembling hand to touch underneath my nose at that red spot. It smears across my lips. Nosebleed? I lick my upper lip tentatively. Metallic overwhelms my senses. Without warning the world bucks, my body collapses out from underneath me, my limbs quake out of my control and I throw up stomach acid and god-knows-how-much of my own blood that I've accidentally swallowed in my sleep.

Dazed, I lay there on the floor like a fish out of water. I can't even muster the strength to roll away from the mess; beaten by my own body. All my bones ache. It's hard to think, it's hard to breathe, but I know I need to find Jazz. Jazz would be awake. She would be downstairs and she'd know what to do. But going downstairs seems impossible. Even moving my head an inch to the left feels arduous.

"Jazz— Help—" I try and call out instead, but my voice is weak. It doesn't sound like my own. I spit up blood against ruined carpet for a minute and try to reel in all my senses. I've never felt like this before... This feels kinda serious. Am I dying? The thought alone is enough to get me back on my feet.

Getting out of my bedroom takes ages. My body is a boneless sock puppet filled with sand. The world whirls in constant rotation, lapping dizzying circles around me as I try to inch my way forward, leaning heavily against the wall for support, stopping to catch my breath after each step. Getting to the first stair is a huge accomplishment, but, as I stare down at the staircase my heart plummets. There's, like, a thousand of them. There's no way I'm gonna make it.

"Dan—" —a dark orange-ish-blue-ish blob appears at the foot of the stairs— "—ny?"

It sounds like my name through a tin can.

"Jazz," I croak. "Something's… something's wrong. I don't feel right..." I'm mumbling, blind. Even as I speak I'm slumping down the wall. My mitt of a hand hits the banister several times to try and keep myself from falling.

Distantly, glass shatters across linoleum.

Jazz is suddenly there, grappling me, catching me before I can plunge face-first down the stairs. I wonder how she managed to get up all those stairs so fast as we both tumble backwards onto the floor in mess of limbs. Her hands flutter across my face, feeling my forehead. They pause near my bloody nose. "Whoah— Hey, talk to me. W-What's wrong? What's going on?"

My head is in her lap. Her hair cascades over her shoulder and against my cheek as she frets around my neck for a pulse. I can barely breathe, much less explain. Not that I know what's going on. My pulse must be weird, cause her hands start shaking.

"You'll be fine." Jazz's voice is panicked. "I'll call an ambulance— I'll—"

"Call Mom," I rasp. It's a bad sign when people start telling you you'll be fine. Hospitals are no good. Whatever this is, I know instinctively Mom can fix it. Fix _me._ Not it. _Me._ Me...

"I will, after—"

"No." I make a deliberate attempt to steady myself. If I stay still the dizziness lessens. I suck in a few breathes and close my eyes. "No ambulance. Mom."

Her body tenses. I can tell she wants to argue.

"Mom," I whisper again. I try and make it an order.

"Ok. I'll be right back. Stay here. Don't move." She slides out from underneath me and leaves my side.

 _It's not like I'm going anywhere,_ I think to myself.

**.**

**.**

"—can't find them. I can't find them!" As I claw my way back to consciousness, Jazz's voice is a high pitch whine. "I already _looked_ there—"

I can tell by the feeling of itchy carpet beneath my shoulder blades that I'm still on the floor in front of the stairs, but there's a pillow under my head and a blanket draped over me. Despite that my body is shivering. My tongue feels too big for my mouth. Nope, not a nightmare: I still feel horrible.

"I _am_ calm! As calm as I _can_ be, considering you won't tell me what's going on!"

Jazz is suddenly tucking the blanket around me too tightly. It's uncomfortable. I groan. She pauses.

"You awake?" Her voice is softer, calmer. I can tell it's directed at me.

I force my eyes open and squint up at her. She's a dark undefined cloud hovering above me, melting into her surroundings.

"He's awake," Jazz says into what I assume is her cellphone. Her hand grips my shoulder through the blanket. "Danny, do you remember where you put that bottle of vitamins? The one's I gave you yesterday?"

I blink sluggishly at her, uncomprehending.

"Your vitamins, Danny," Jazz breathes. " _Vitamins._ "

My vitamins? Why would she need those right now? Can't she see I'm dying here or something? Maybe a ghost specialist would be more useful. Where's my mom?

"Vi-ta-mins," she insists, dragging out the syllables.

"Sam's," I mumble. They're probably still on Sam's kitchen counter.

"Good. And the vial? From the lab? Do you know where that is?"

I think I answer. I mean, I'm not sure...

"Danny? The vial?" Jazz's hand pecks insistently at my cheek. I'm too tired to tell her to stop. "Wake up. C'mon, you're really scaring me." Her voice cracks.

I don't want to scare her, but my body is beyond my own control. It always has been. I realize that now.

**.**

**.**

The next time I wake up I feel _great._

The air is cool. There's a soft breeze that brushes against my cheek systematically, every minute or so. I roll my head a few times back and forth, relishing the feeling of memory foam. For a moment I'm convinced I'm still in Sam's bed, that the breeze is her breath as she sleeps beside me, but I know the instant I crack my eyes open that I'm wrong.

My vision is sharp and unclouded. A few feet above me is a glass ceiling that extends the length of my body and then some, before meeting four more glass walls. I'm in some kind of glass coffin. I tense and reach a hand out, pressing up against the roof, but it's solid and unyielding.

Where...? My eyes take in a twin pair of huge surgical lights hovering above me, circular, looming, mounted to the ceiling. I'm in my parent's lab, but I've never seen it from this angle before. From the angle of... of an... I imagine what they might look like when turned on— _circular lights, blinding, hot, unrelenting, the portal?—_

I shudder and roll my head to the left, seeing my mother's work bench. Papers are strewn across it. That doesn't seem right. She's usually cleaner than that.

"Danno?"

The voice is muffled and deep. I roll my head back around the other way and let my arm drop to my side.

My dad is sitting next to the glass— his nose almost pressed against it, shoulders hunched. He looks like he's about to get scolded. Part of me is relieved to see him instead of my mom. I dunno why. They're both guilty.

"What's wrong with me?" I ask. I'm surprised at the tremor in my voice.

Dad shoots me a one of his big grins, but it feels like a veneer. All that warmth and comfort is gone. In it's place is worry. He looks more stressed than I have ever seen him. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle, but not from laughing. Not this time.

"Nothing's wrong with you. You were sick... You were sick, but now you're alright."

 _Then why am I in this thing?_ I bite the inside of my cheek for a moment as I watch him. I don't have enough energy right now to be angry at him. Instead I'm just sad.

"Dad… What did you and Mom do?" I whisper.

He doesn't answer. It's like he doesn't know what to say when he can't find an applicable joke to crack. Or maybe he just doesn't know what to say period. In the end he clears his throat a few times and says, gruffly: "Try and get some more rest. I bet you're tired." His large hand presses against the glass near my cheek.

"I want out," I mumble petulantly.

"I know kiddo. Believe me, I want you out too. Soon," he promises.

I want to argue some more, but my eyelids droop against my will. A sudden rush of exhaustion batters me and darkness wins out.

**.**

**.**

Jazz's hair is soft, her weight warm. She's slumped in a deep sleep, head on my stomach, one arm draped across my waist. It looks really uncomfortable. I'm sure there's going to be a big knot in her back when she wakes up. A half-gone mug of cold tea sits to her left, red lipstick smeared across the rim: Mom's.

"She's barely left your side."

I glance up. Mom descends the stairs of the lab, her hands fumbling uncertainly with a piece of paper. She's in her white labcoat, goggles perched above her brow, hair frazzled. She eyes me like a doctor eyes a patient and pulls up a rolling chair. With a few scoots she makes her way over to the left side of the bed. At least I was out of whatever glass thing they had put me in. That must be a good sign.

"Does she know?" I ask, voice hoarse and musty. "About what you did?"

"What did I do?" she asks.

These minds games. _Enough._ I glare at her and yank my hand back from where she tries to grab it. Maddie sighs and leans backwards in her chair for a moment, contemplating me. Her lips purse and she drops her gaze.

"She suspects," she admits, voice quiet, calm. I want her to look visibly shaken— guilty, terrified, _something_ — but my mom is a clinical pillar. Although her lipstick is a little smeared. Her hair isn't its usual perfect bob. Her eyes are red-rimmed like she hasn't slept in days. Or she's been crying. I swallow and stare down instead at the red lump next to my heart; my ever-loyal sister. Jazz lets out a tiny snore. "Sam and Tucker have been here too. Everyday," Maddie continues. I wonder how long I've been out.

"What happened?" I whisper, afraid of waking Jazz up.

Maddie glances down at the paper in her hand. "If left unchecked, the ectoplasm in your bloodstream can attack and destroy your red blood cells. Your vitamins prevent that from happening. We managed to stabilize you, but you were… failing." Her voice cracks. For a moment she looks truly afraid, like a normal parent faced with the near-death of a child. Then the expression passes.

"So it's true then? You and Dad have been experimenting on me?" I choke.

"Yes." My world crumbles. "Let me explain—"

I heave a few breaths and look around the room. "I can't believe— This is all wrong— I'm a _freak._ "

"No, sweetheart." She reaches out and grabs my hand before I can withdraw it from her again and holds it up to her heart. It's numb in her grasp. "You can fly, mend broken bones overnight, and phase through solid matter. Your cells regenerate fast enough to delay your death for at least fifty years... You're _incredible,_ Danny." She eyes me like I'm her greatest achievement. I suppose, in a way, I am.

"You didn't think to ask if I wanted this? I didn't want this!" I hiss. But Phantom is a part of me now. He's an organ I can't live without. Real. Beating. Essential.

"We should have told you. That was our mistake. But I was a mother with the ability to provide her child with unprecedented betterment. It wasn't a choice. I _had_ to do it." Maddie reaches out to stroke my hair.

I flinch back, hard.

Her face falls. Finally, a glimmer of guilt gathers wetly in the corners of her eyes. "Danny…"

"Are you even listening to yourself right now? You sound crazy," I accuse.

Maddie nods glumly and sets her papers aside onto the table where a bunch of other papers are scattered messily. There's coffee stains and manic hastily-written equations staining them. It looks like the desk of a madwoman.

"The line between genius and insanity is thin and stretches depending on who you talk to. But you need to know: you were _never_ in any danger." Her eyes search mine. They ring with truth. She really believes it.

"Oh yeah, great. I definitely feel safe," I snap. "I'm only half _dead_. You and Dad only half- _killed_ me." Does that make them half-murderers? "I nearly died _completely."_

"This wasn't part of the procedure. _Someone_ stopped taking his vitamins," she scolds. I move to defend myself, to start squabbling like a normal teenage boy when faced with a nagging mother, but words die in my throat. I grit my teeth instead.

"How did you know the ectoplasm wouldn't kill me?" I ask. It was a question that had been burning deep within me. How could they have gone through with this? How could they have been so certain? But, even as I ask it, I know the answer.

"Because we did it before. By accident, of course. Vlad was a mistake. The portal malfunctioned, he got contaminated with a flash of ectoplasmic radiation. Afterwards, when we saw what exposure to ectoplasm could do— in the right body composition of course— we knew we couldn't just abandon the research. The regenerative cells, the trans-dimensional abilities… It was the biggest scientific breakthrough since Dolly the sheep. But Vlad is imperfect. He was too old when he morphed. His exposure was isolated to just his face. He has episodes where he's not himself, outbreaks of ectoacne, and still— to this day— struggles to remain stabilized."

Suddenly all of Vlad's clone attempts… had Vlad been trying to steal my mid-morph DNA in order to fix himself? What had he said to me? _The perfect half-ghost son. The perfect half-ghost..._

Jazz shifts. Her face reanimates. Pale lashes take off of dark circles. I clamp my jaw shut, tense, and turn my face away from my mother.

"Mom?" Jazz mumbles, pulling herself off of me. She winces as she straightens her back. Something in there pops. "Danny?"

"Hi, Jazzy." I try a smile but it hurts.

"You're awake." Her arms wind around me, pulling me tightly into her chest. She's shaking. Is she crying? She smells like dirty laundry and burned coffee. Lots of coffee. Her hair goes up my nose and I sneeze. Her hug is relentless and I'm too weak to try and break out of it.

"My ribs. I can't breathe," I try and say, but she ignores me.

"Stupid brother," she mumbles into my hair. "You stupid— You scared me. I thought—"

"It'll take more than a few vitamins to kill me," I joke humorlessly. "Mom'll make sure of that." I sent a pointed glare into Jazz's collarbone. Behind me I can feel the force of my mother's flinch. It sucks the air out from around us. A prickly silence descends. It isn't just Jazz's hug that makes it hard for me to breathe.


	7. getting joy from starting little fires

**LIME GREEN WISPS UNDULATE LAZILY** inside a whirlpool vortex. The event. The accident. Or at least, so I had thought.

Now I know nothing had been accidental. What is that saying? There is no such thing as coincidence? In my own naïveté I had overlooked all the blaring signs. For months after the accident Sam, Tucker and I had chanted— like a prayer— how _lucky_ I had been that I hadn't fully died. But it wasn't luck at all. It was the fruits of years of preparations.

I squint until my eyes are pinpricks. The swirls from the portal blur together making a fuzzy haze of green.

Now that I know what my parents are _really_ doing with the Portal, the urge to shut it down for good is overwhelming. Hunting ghosts, only to rip them apart in order to fuel their own research. Skulker is one of many that unwillingly donated his energy to their cause. To me. I shiver. In fact, most ghosts I've encountered have been tests. Afterall, my parents needed some way to get me to develop and hone my powers. They were never supposed to seriously injure me. That had been Skulker's fatal mistake.

The sound of rubber dragging along cement erupts from behind me as the door to the lab opens outwards. I can tell by the weight of the steps against the iron staircase that it's my father. I pretend the Portal is more interesting than it is to avoid facing him.

"Morning, kiddo. Couldn't find you in your room. I thought for a minute…" His voice trails off uncertainly, before he clears his throat. "You hungry?"

He had thought I'd run from home. The idea is tempting. Ever since recovering from my vitamin detox I spent my time churning the possibility around in my head. But here I am. Still here. My parents and I both know I can't run. I need them to survive, just like I need this portal to remain open so that they can continue hunt ghosts, to continue to replenish my ectoplasm. At least, until the point when I can replenish it on my own. My mother insists that in a few years I will be stable enough to survive independent of the vitamins, of the injections. Forever, irreversibly, Danny Phantom.

My stomach churns violently as I tally up how many injections I've already received, how many ghosts have already died for me. My mother's voice drifts through me, a sharp rebuke: _Honey, ghosts are the energy left behind when a human body and mind fails. Any consciousness you think they possess are merely extraneous impulses: A carbon copy. They are not, they can not, be truly alive in the sense that they are people. They are balls of condensed energy. Nothing more._

"Not hungry," I gasp. "I'm not… I'm not hungry."

A heavy hand falls atop my left shoulder. I instantly shrug it off. It doesn't return.

"You have to eat," Dad says softly.

My lips press together. The Portal continues to swirl unremarkably. With a small grimace I realize he isn't going to leave. Why doesn't he just get the hint and leave me alone? I can't bring myself to stay mad at my dad. I can tell he knows what he did was wrong, but he doesn't know how to fix it. That's at least marginally better than my mom, who still maintains that what she did was a good thing.

I spin and glance back at him, my eyes scanning his exhausted puppy-dog face and the plate of cookies he's offering up to me like some sort of penance.

I reach out and grab one, breaking it into pieces in my fingers as I try and force a bite into my mouth. I nibble at it like a squirrel, then stash the rest of it in my sweatshirt pocket to toss later when he isn't looking.

"Danny… This whole thing. Your mother and I… I just wanted to tell you that—"

Oh god, here it comes. I brace myself mentally. I'm not ready to accept an apology from him.

"What we did—" he continues, but gets interrupted by the _rfffssssssp_ of the door opening again. Relief pummels through me, making my knees weak as I glance up at the staircase.

"Danny?"

Sam looks between the two of us as she winds her way down the stairs, Tucker following close behind. I can see a slice of orange as Jazz sticks her head through the doorway and observes. That's all she's been doing, ever since finding out what had happened: observing. She hasn't allowed my parents to be alone in a room with me for more than ten minutes, even if she just walks in and stands there, silent. She knows I'm not ready to spend that long with them. Already my hands are shaking. I stick them into my sweatshirt, clenched. They bump up against the discarded cookie.

Dad coughs and trains his gaze to the floor. "Alright, well… I'll just leave these down here for you kids."

He sets the plate down atop Maddie's work desk, which has been cleaned of coffee spills and crumpled papers. He shuffles for a moment, out of place among my peers, before he nods once and turns for the stairs. "I'll be up in the kitchen," he informs me, before he leaves.

 _Good. I'll stay down here._ I've been camped out down here for a while now directly in front of the Portal, making it impossible for my parent's to continue their work. So far I've succeeded, but I know that eventually they'll force me to move out of the way.

Sam's arms wind their way around me loosely for a second, before she lets me go. I can tell she doesn't hug very often because her hugs are always slightly shy.

Tucker pulls over three chairs and positions them right in front of the Portal. All three of us sink into them.

"How's today?" Tucker asks hesitantly.

I shrug, pulling the cookie out from my pocket and wave it around at them. "Weird. Not as weird as yesterday. Or the day before."

Time was funny. Maybe I'm already adapting to this new world or maybe things are eventually righting themselves. Regardless, there's no great options other than to trudge forward. Running would result in death. Going to the authorities would result in being outed as a paranormal anomaly. All I can do is wrestle for control over the situation. I'm tired of feeling helpless, of having things happen to me without my permission. I certainly don't trust my parents anymore… but they're still my parents.

"Sometimes I wish I had never filmed my room so I didn't have to know. But now that I know, even though everything is messed up, it feels…" I trail off.

"Real?" Sam supplies. She stares at me, her eyes turbulent and angry. I know she wants nothing more than to whisk me away from this place. But then again, she's always had a different, more expendable, view of parents. I can't give up on mine yet.

I nod. She's right. My relationship with my parents is now _real_. My family is _real_. Before it had been some kind of elaborate act, but now the dirty laundry is out to dry. Sure, we have to sort it, fold it, deal with it. I know that even though it doesn't feel healthier right now, it is. I have to trust in that. Trust that we _can_ repair things and that I won't be alone.

I glance between the two of them. Jazz, Sam, Tucker… They feel real too. More so than ever before. I reach out and grab their hands, giving them a squeeze, just to feel them, to remind me of them.

With another nod I get up out of my chair and head over to the table. My eyes drift across the stack of cookies and I drop my uneaten one next to the rest. A lone vitamin sits among them, sans Post-It. I pinch it between my thumb and pointer finger, holding it up to the light. With a frown I pop it in my mouth and swallow it dry, grimacing at the acidic tang. Now that I know what it feels like to stop taking these things I'm more compliant. Don't have much of a choice.

I glance back down. With a sharp wave of a hand I bat away an errant fly that is darting close to the cookies. I grab the plate and return to my seat, plopping down with an soft exhale and offering them up to the pair.

"Want any?" I ask, grinning despite myself.

Sam wrinkles her nose, but Tucker reaches over and grabs one. He settles himself down in the chair, preparing for the long haul of this stakeout. Sherlock and Watson. I pick up my half-nibbled cookie and return to eating it, finding that my appetite has reappeared and that I'm _hungry_.

"Will you be okay?" Sam asks, noticing my smile. What had I told her before? 'I hope so?' I glance down at the piece of cookie in my hand and find that I have a much more straight-forward answer.

"Yes."

Eventually. Right now it doesn't feel like it, but I gotta believe it will.

* * *

> _I am the fly underneath their magnifying glass._
> 
> _They tilt it from side to side,_
> 
> _making different parts of me smoke and squirm—_
> 
> _inspecting without compassion,_
> 
> _getting joy from starting_
> 
> _little fires._


End file.
